2013.05.15 - Just Like Old Times
History Museums, the bane of existence for many. Some people don't care enough about the past to enjoy it. Younger people view the buildings as just a form of school, and deem it uncool. Carter Hall is thoroughly enjoying himself. Two hours have passed since he walked through the Metropolis History Museum's doors and he's far from bored. If it wasn't for his green button up workshirt Carter may be confused for a display in the World War II exhibit thanks to his brown bomber jacket and brown cargo pants that are reminiscent of some pilot outfits. His light brown eyes are focused on a display that could use some renovating. The Blackhawks were a team that did great things but are now easily forgotten. "I see you got yourself a pair of wings Zindy. You knew how to soar before then. Glad to see you gave to that Nazi bastard," Carter says with a proud smile. In his past life he worked behind enemy lines and could recall more details about the war than most displays. Despite being twenty-seven in this lifetime, back then he was a hardened twenty year old working for Uncle Sam in a black costume, like a cover version of other symbols Uncle Sam used during that time. "Why'd you have to pull an Earhart, huh? You probably had a few more fights in ya. The Society would have taken you in a heartbeat. I would have made them even if they weren't fans," his words are low but he can't help himself. Zinda is and would always be a good soldier and better person in Carter's eyes. Sometimes, especially in places like museums, air shows, places that have connections to her past, Zinda is almost /sure/ she sees certain faces in the crowd. Old friends, even the occasional enemy. /Most/ of the time, its her mind playing tricks on her. She's learned to stop trying to approach these people- more often than not, the features fade into obscurity before she even catches up with them. But the man in the bomber jacket, she's been watching from the corner of her eye for a good twenty minutes now, and nothing's changed. His hair's a little different, sure, but- The voice. That's what brings her back. She takes a few steps closer, coming to stand a few feet behind Carter before she speaks up. "I still wish they hadn't used that damn poster here. The just painted my uniform on Grable's body for that one, y'know," she drawls. "And they didn't even get it right. Look at those heels." Carter turns at the voice expecting to see a ghost. Double-taking at the sight of flesh and bone that looks unchanged since the fifties, his brown eyes stayed glued on her. All the scenarios run though his mind, Super Soldier Serum, Clone, Reincarnation, time travel, anything that could remotely fit how Zinda is here in 2013 looking extremely spry for a ninety year old. His jaw hangs like an ajar door. Usually it's him having to explain how he's still the man he was, never has it been the other way around until this moment. "You get used to it," says the ghost, wryly, recognizing that look- and that feeling. She takes a few steps closer, looking him over. "One day, I'm gonna get Fury to give me a list of how many of us are still runnin' around like this. What's your excuse?" she wonders. "And weren't you about an inch taller last I saw you?" "Long story. You look good for a ninety year old," he nods to the comment about being taller. The right corner of his mouth tugs his face into a smirk, "Died, came back. Eventually, remembered who I was, that's the short version. I know about Cap and Namor. Canary is around but inactive. Kid has the mantle and is making Mom proud." Hearing that name Fury rings a few bells. Having died in 1983 makes Carter familiar with the man, at least by reputation, "I didn't know you were active in the military." The smirk turns into a grin, "Still putting women to shame by being the best looker in the bar? Putting their men to shame when you outdrink them in whatever contest you've dared them to?" Zinda would put guys to shame in the bar fight that would typically follow, if memory serves Carter right, but no one really kept count on that competition. At least he didn't anyway. His new liver cries out in pain at the memories of drinking with Zinda once or twice. "Skipped a few decades- which really makes renewing my license a bitch," she tells him. "It's hell getting insured, but they still won't give me my AARP discount." She... doesn't sound like she's entirely kidding, there. "But most of that's still true, though I got a different Skipper these days. Little bit of a smaller operation than the 'Hawks." And that's about all she'll say about her new boss- loose lips and all that. "So, this dyin' an' comin' back- that come with a new job, or you still flittin' about?" Oh she probably would and wouldn't believe this one, "I'm a Doctor now, if that's what you're asking." The guy that likes to fight is now a Doctor, in the educational sense. His brown eyes look to see how Zinda is taking the news. He keeps quiet about costumes and what not. If she isn't really talking too much about her flying days then why should he talk about his, if there are any? She raises an eyebrow at that. "As in, medical? They got you patchin' folks up now?" she looks impressed, if a little surprised. "Split enough lips for one lifetime, huh?" She grins. "Can I call you Doc, then?" "You can call me Doc, if you want. But if you make any jokes involving that cartoon line," Carter can't finish the sentence. He'd threaten her but she would either like it, or get mad then they'd fight anyway. "Hell, call me what you want Zindy." A smile dances across his face and he starts walking, "It's comforting and a little weird to see a familiar face. What do you think about today's world? When did you get back, anyway?" So many questions linger between the two of them. They are yesterday's soldiers stuck in today's world; it's obvious to ask about the various affairs of society. Both of them fought to bring the world to what it is today. Now it's only natural to ask if they are happy about the world. "Well, folks don't look at me like I've grown a second head when I say I'm a pilot- that, I like. Birth control is damn handy. Can't say I'm a big fan of the music," she says, counting off on her fingers, and waving her hand a little on that last point. "And Coca-Cola /does not/ taste at the same at all, 'Classic' or not," she says. Not that it really matters when you put as much rum in it as she does. "So? Try one of the other cola companies. It's not like you'll be able to taste it much after you put the rum in it," he remembers how Zinda's rum and coke's are ninety percent rum to ten percent coke. Again his liver screams at memories. Smirking at her list, "You're not going to talk about the women's rights movements? How cars have changed. How the Wizard of Oz is still relevant today? Just flying, fun stuff and drinking?" Carter's smile stays where it is because he can only imagine her counter answer. "What else is there?" Zinda replies with a shrug. "I never was a real complicated woman, you know that, Wings." A beat. Wait for it. "You wanna go grab a drink?" Lady Blackhawk has reconnected. "What else is there?" Zinda replies with a shrug. "I never was a real complicated woman, you know that, Wings." A beat. Wait for it. "You wanna go grab a drink?" Lady Blackhawk has partially disconnected. "Are you going to try and punch out the bar tender like you did back in thirty-eight?" an arm is held out to the woman if she wants to take it. Either way she would know the bar scene far better than Carter would, "Still know 'I'll have a beer' in five languages?" Zinda apparently picked up how to ask for a brew in a few of the countries she was in. At least that's what he presumed back then. "Thirty languages, actually," she points out, linking her arm with his. "And no promises- can't stand it when they water down the drinks." He does have the advantage of a /new/ liver over her old one this time, at least. Half an hour later, Zinda's dragged her old friend into what has to be the diviest of bars in the area. Unsurprisingly, a few people there seem to recognize her- the bartender even has her drink on the old oak table before she has her jacket off. "Been meaning to come back here for a while," she admits. "Got a little business that needs taking care of." God knows what she means by that. Shaking his head Carter sits and comments, "Make sure they can still show up for work in the morning if things go sour. Need a wing man?" he asks completely oblivious of the pun made. At least he didn't say something like "Birds of a feather," that joke got old back in the forties. Brown eyes look over the place, "Brew, Domestic. Whatever isn't light and doesn't taste like piss-water," he mutters to the tender. The brown coat stays on. Something about tonight doesn't sit right with Carter so he tries to keep tabs on his friend. It doesn't take all that long before Zinda's reasoning for chosing this particular bar makes itself clear. A few beers into the evening, and a group of young men arrive- all with freshly shaven heads, and black combat boots sporting bright red laces. "Knew they'd show up one of these nights," she says over her drink. "You've got great timing, Wings." Several patrons seem to sense the impending trouble, and hurry to pay their tabs and leave. Zinda, on the other hand, is in no such rush. "Feel like a trip down memory lane?" she asks her friend. The sight of old enemies reincarnated in new forms, "Makes me wish I had a bat for this Raus." The German word for "Raid," is spoken loud enough it would surely catch their attention. "I almost wish for the wings to be back on my shoulders," the way his tone comes off is reminiscent of a retired soldier wanting to reenlist. Looking at Zinda, "I could kiss you right now. You know that right?" If one of the guys approach them Carter says in the cheeriest tone, "Guten Tag." Bits of German was learned by every soldier that fought back then. "The sight of old enemies reincarnated in new forms brightens Carter's mood*" "You can try that, later," Zinda promises, pinning her hair back and tucking the resulting ponytail under her shirt. "Guess I don't have to tell ya they put some poor kid in the hopsital last week to get you behind this," she muses. The skinhead Carter approaches looks utterly /confused/ by the bits of German. Neo-Nazis just don't do their homework these days, apparently. And definitely not their history homework- another one, who clearly has had a few drinks, grabs Zinda by the wrist to pull her close- though he doesn't get the cheap feel he was aiming for, but rather the base of her hand slammed into his nose. The /crunch/ sound it makes is as satisying as it is disgusting. Hearing that satisfying crunch springs Carter into action. He's up and one of the Nazis is down on the floor thanks to a single leg takedown executed like a roman. Clearly someone has been trying training in combat while becoming a doctor. "Reich Raus," the words come out in cold satisfaction as the arms still holding the Nazi's leg twists creating another crunch that goes into the air. Brown eyes look over the rest of the crew, "Next?" Screams fill the bar as the Nazi with the broken leg is screaming for dear life as the pain is the most intense thing he's ever felt. It's a quick and brutal fight- and over far, far too fast. The last two flee the bar, not caring at all that they're leaving behind their broken and bleeding brethren. "They just don't make these assholes like they used to, do they?" Zinda observes as she catches one by the collar and tosses him at Carter. Putting the man tossed at him in a hold Carter does a takedown thanks to jujitsu classes from college. Down the nazi goes, "Yeah, it's a shame," the words are hard, cold. Someone seems disappointed by how quick they go down. Although two are down he kicks the man that just went down moments ago. "Hey, asshole. Whatever wild hair you have up your ass about this bar consider it officially pluck. If I ever see a pair of red shoe laces in this place I'm going to send her after you and she's the meaner one between us. Got it?" taking out the guys wallet he tosses it to Zinda. Hopefully people would get the message. Breathing hard Carter is marveling at the remains of the fight. Glee dances in his eyes at the sight. Lady Blackhawk has never been one to stick to the formal rules of fighting. Particularly "never below the belt." When the last one is tossed back to her, she breaks that rule rather soundly with her knee, then casually steps over the man on the floor to grab her unfinished beer. "We should probably go," she says, regretfully. They are /tecnically/ the aggressors here, having thrown the first punches. And she did promise Babs she wouldn't get any calls from lock-up this month... After tossing the guy, who's now wallet-less, at Zinda he practically cheers at the groin shot. Going to his beer finishing it in one drink, "You know how to treat a guy to a fun night." Stepping over one of the guys Carter offers his arm to Zinda, "Let's go beautiful. They know this bar is off limits. Where to next?" Everything feels like the days of old. Riding the high of it all, he wants to scream, he wants to shout, he wants to give in to every impulse and live for the first time in years. Once again, Zinda takes his arm. "Dancing?" she suggests. "Place on the other side o'town has a swing night..." and fortunately (or unfortunately?) no Nazis. Category:Log